The Pale Protocol
The ink in the well is dry, yet the page remains wet. I am writing this by the light of a gas lamp that sputters and dies, leaving me in a darkness so thick it feels like wool stuffed into my ears. I am Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and I am dying. Not from the cold, though the basement archives are freezing, but from the slow, steady drain of my own vitality into the black fibers of the...
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